


'Almost' or 'Home is where the Heart is'

by Strange_johnlock



Series: Home [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Back to 221B?, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, John Has a Beard, John Watson Needs A Hug, John is a good man whom bad things happened too, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Parenthood, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock just wants to fix things and goes about it the wrong way, Taking care of Rosie togehter, Tenderness, Unrequited Love, coming home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-07 06:12:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18867367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/pseuds/Strange_johnlock
Summary: "Where Sherlock enjoyed every second together and counted the minutes to see John again, his (former) best friend kept his distance, even when they sat on a bench together and watched Rosie run around the park. To Sherlock John was home, and John had found a different one."Sherlock wants John to come home.John wants the space to cure his broken heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful Amelia, who, through all the time zones and differences, takes the time to look over my stories to make them better <3

**SH**

It was not very subtle to buy a second chair to fit opposite his own in the renovated flat. Sherlock had not intended for it to be subtle. It had taken him two weeks of research to find the exact same model and he had paid too much money for it, but it was worth the  message it would send towards John.

And John ignored it.

John ignored that his chair was waiting for him in Baker Street to come back, so they could continue life as it had been before the fall. Well, with the addition of Rosamund Mary Watson, who was, quite frankly a delight to be around. Sherlock had always preferred the company of children to that of adults because they were still open to new ideas, unbiased, and curious about anything and everything, and so he enjoyed their weekly meetings at the park immensely. They would walk to the pond, feed the ducks, have ice cream and Sherlock would tell her about his experiments. She never called him a freak or yawned at him for going on about ash. Instead, she waddled alongside Sherlock, her tiny hand in his, and repeated words she liked out loud.

He never met her at the flat, because as soon as the renovations had been finished, John had avoided Baker Street like the plague, and the chair stood vacated. As he watched John walk away, Rosie on his arm, waving at him, Sherlock wondered why that could be.

They were good. John had said so. They had forgiven each other as well as they could and tried their best to forget what they had done. They were good, but they were not the same. Where Sherlock enjoyed every second together and counted the minutes to see John again, his (former) best friend kept his distance, even when they sat on a bench together and watched Rosie run around the park. To Sherlock John was home, and John had found a different one.

Sherlock’s hands clenched into fists, as John Watson became smaller and smaller, until he disappeared from view. He was tired of waiting for John to make up his mind.

 

* * *

 

**JW**

John sat on his chair in his living room in the house he had called home for the past three years. The chair didn’t quite fit the shape of his body, and the living room was furnished to be functional. Mary had not been the type of person to be cosy, or prone to collecting things. The house, nice as it was, was just a house and nothing more. It was a roof over their heads.

John missed Baker Street. He missed the clutter and the experiments on the table, he missed the violin in the early morning hours, and Mrs. Hudson bustling about. He missed Sherlock. And what was worse, he knew he could just go back there. They would welcome Rosie and him with open arms. Sherlock would not help with the move of course but would show the little one around the flat. John could cut back on shifts in the clinic without the mortgage for the house hanging over his head and they would go on more cases together. They would look at bodies and chase robbers and come home to Rosie for a cuddle. John would make dinner and Sherlock would play Rosie to sleep.

And John couldn’t do it. As wonderful as that sounded, it would not be enough. John got up and walked to the kitchen. His first instinct was to grab the bottle of whiskey off the shelf and pour himself a drink. Instead, he switched the kettle on. Tea was the best and most British way to deal with heartache after all. He listened to the water boil, the only prominent sound in the flat as he closed his eyes for a moment.

Mycroft had found him the best therapist, a real one this time, so he could deal with his hurt, grief and anger. For the first time in his life, as if a switch had been flipped, John had talked, and Matt had listened, two hours a week for over six months.

Sherlock’s death.

His wife’s betrayal.

Her death.

Hitting Sherlock.

Being a single parent.

Abandoning his daughter.

The well.

Those things would always haunt him, make him feel guilty and angry and hurt, but he had the tools to deal with those feelings now. He knew when he had to remove himself from a situation, or go for a run, or turn up the radio. He still wasn’t a good man, but Sherlock had been right, he was only human.

And he knew now, when something was too much to handle.

Sherlock, Baker Street, that was too much and not enough. Too much, because being near Sherlock meant he had to fight those tender feelings down constantly, and he was exhausted. So, instead of fighting the temptation, he had to avoid it. John had to stay strong, even though it took almost the same amount of his strength not to just give in and be pulled into Sherlock’s orbit again. It was a trap and John found himself unable to act, to change his fate.

John cleared his throat and blinked the wetness from his eyes. In the glass of the kitchen cupboard, his gaze found his own reflection. He had looked worse, that he knew. The moustache had made him old. He liked the beard better. He liked how it made him different from the John he had been before Sherlock Holmes had taken that small, fatal step off the roof. He wasn’t that John anymore, the happy John. He didn’t need to look like him. First, after the moustache had turned out to be a major failure, he had chanced his hair. He prefered hit to the clean military cut. The beard was the newest addition. John had been surprised by the silver colour that his hair had faded to. He was middle aged. That was okay.

Shaking his head to tear his eyes away, John reached out for a cup. Just as he placed it on the counter, there was a knock on the door.

John’s first instinct was to grab his gun, and he almost laughed at himself. This was not central London; this was a suburban neighbourhood. Nothing ever happened here.

_Nothing ever happens to me._

The words echo in his mind as he walks to the door and opens it. Sherlock had never been here, but somehow it was not a surprise to see him standing there. Who else would come here at one in the morning like it was a normal thing to do?

“You can make me a cup as well.” Sherlock said, as he walked past him and into the living room. “Two sugars, in case you forgot.”

John shook his head, but he could feel the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was halfway through the kitchen when he stopped and turned towards his best friend. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” The detective looked up from his phone.

“What are you doing here?”

Sherlock looked at him with a face that said something along the lines of ‘you should already know that. I am tired of explaining the most obvious things to you, John. You are an idiot, why do I tolerate you?’. He had seen that face many times and had grown to love it.

“Don’t look at me like that, Sherlock. It’s one in the morning, you’re here, and you brought a suitcase. So yes, an explanation would be nice.” Neutral words, when John could barely cope with the excitement that flooded his whole body every time he saw Sherlock Holmes.

“We renovated Baker Street. We made it liveable again, but for some reason, you don’t want to come home. I suspect, it is the size. There is not much room for Rosie. I can understand that. So, I am here, now. I only brought the most important things; the rest can be dealt with later.” Sherlock picked up his suitcase again. “The guest room is on the right, if I am not mistaken.”

And John could not even protest. He watched as Sherlock dragged the suitcase up the stairs.

The tea, for the night, was forgotten.

 

  


 


	2. Chapter 2

**JW**

John stared at the wall. Technically, he stared at his wardrobe, the door left ajar, as he tried, impossibly, to see beyond the walls and into the room Sherlock was sleeping in. John had tried to act like nothing was different, had brushed his teeth and gone to bed. Two hours later, the light on his nightstand was still switched on. Sherlock had come into his house, intending on staying.

What he had been desperate to avoid, had followed him and invaded his space and John felt like he wanted to cry, and he didn’t know if it was of hurt or joy or both.

He could just tell him to leave.

Who was he kidding? He may be strong enough to pack his belongings and move into Baker Street, but when had he ever told Sherlock Holmes no? The man had woken him up in the middle of the night to drag him into a skip for an experiment, and John had nagged about it, but had complied, had been happy to just go with it.

John knew himself well enough to be sure that he would just bite back, as always, and live with the situation that had presented itself to him. When life gave him lemons, John Watson, in his stubbornness, organised his life around them, ignoring them as best as he could, without even a thought of lemonade.

When his best friend had died, he had continued working until he reached his limits, both physically and mentally. When his wife had been shot, he had lived in their house, imagining her by his side. When he had been saved from the well, realising how he had mistreated both Sherlock and his daughter, he had not apologised but lived on as if nothing had happened. So, yes, he would just let Sherlock do as Sherlock pleased and make his life around him as good as possible, because there was nothing left in him that made him want to fight. He just wanted an ordinary, normal life with his daughter, because the adventure he had so desperately sought and thought he needed, had only made things worse in the end. Maybe, just maybe, he could be happy here, a doctor, a father, a friend. Most people were.

 

John must have fallen asleep, because when he woke the room was already filled with sunlight. For a moment, John thought about how on weekends, he had sometimes slept in, when there was nothing else to do, and wanted to burrow his face back in the pillow for just five more minutes. He didn’t, because he had a child, and Rosie usually woke him up around half past six, even before his alarm to demand cuddles and food. Why hadn’t she done so now?

John hurried to her room to find it empty, and just before the panic only known to parents could rise in his chest, he heard her voice downstairs. John turned, and as he spotted the door to the guest room ajar, he remembered. Sherlock was here. Sherlock had moved in last night and was downstairs with Rosie. Touching his chest and feeling the rapid heartbeat within it, John took a deep breath of relief.

She was safe, safe with Sherlock, whom she loved and was so good with her. It was the most wonderful thing to see them together once a week, when they met up at the park and John even felt reluctant then. They went to their own little world together, so similar in their curiosity and kindness towards the small things. There was no space in that world for him, but he was happy just to observe them, watch them smile together.

And that was what they did when he came down to the kitchen. Rosie was still in her pyjamas, which were covered in flour, as was the tip of her adorable, little nose. She reached out for John when she spotted him in the doorway and he scooped her up, not caring about the dust cloud coming off of her.

“I was informed that pancakes would be a preferable breakfast. I have never made those, but we are fortunate enough to live in the twenty-first century and have access to a large variety of knowledge.”

John raised an eyebrow. “What you are trying to say is, that you googled how to make pancakes.” He translated, a smile on his face that was mirrored by Sherlock.

“Yes. Would you make the tea?”

Just like that, they were back into their domestic routine, bantering and joking and working around each other like they had always done. And John thought, in moments like this, that it could almost be enough. Almost.

 

* * *

 

**JW**

Sherlock, although mostly clad in black, was a spot of colour in their lives. Rosie adored him. She talked about nothing but the detective all the way from the nursery to the front door, and she yelled for him as soon as he had turned the key. Sherlock never disappointed. He stopped what he was doing to pick her up and whirl her through the air.

It was good to have someone to come home to, less quiet. John would make dinner, while Sherlock entertained the little one. They would eat, and Sherlock would return to whatever he was working on, so John had some alone time with his daughter. Sometimes, after Rosie went to bed, they would have wine, or tea, and watch some telly, or Sherlock would ask for his medical opinion on something. It almost felt like before. Almost.

And then they would part ways, each going to their room, and John would lie awake for most of the night and think how almost was not enough; and how he wished it was. Almost was perfectly fine for his mind, but for his heart it lacked one essential part. It was at night when that fact made itself most obvious, when he felt like crying from how much his heart ached for Sherlock. During the day when there was a lot to do, a lot to distract him, he could cope somehow, but in the quiet hours John Watson suffered.

He had loved Sherlock Holmes for so long, that he could barely remember what it felt like not to love him. For a while, in the beginning, he had managed to hide his feelings from himself and the world, but with every adventure, every quiet moment, every look, they had made themselves known. And now, with most of his problems worked through, his grief managed, his anger dealt with, he had made himself open and vulnerable and the tenderness he felt for Sherlock lived just underneath his skin ready to break free at any moment. As he had feared, it took a lot of strength to hold it back. John was strong enough for now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Watson Needs to be protected at all costs


	3. Chapter 3

**SH**

Finally, Sherlock was living with John again. The house was not ideal. He preferred older buildings that had a certain amount of charm to them, a history, but he would live in a dumpster if that was what John chose.

He knew he was an intruder. He had not asked, had just forced himself into John’s life, his home, but then John had not thrown him back onto the streets during the past two weeks, so Sherlock arranged himself in his new room.

It was good. Sherlock worked on cases most of the days. He had gone back to texting John whenever he felt stuck or needed a medical opinion and made sure to be at the house when the Watsons came home around three.

He would play the violin in the evenings or do some research on his phone while pretending to watch Bond movies with John.

Twice already, he had felt the need to shoot the wall, but had held back. This was not Baker Street and John was not nearly as forgiving of a house owner as Mrs. Hudson was.

He deduced the neighbours habits and made himself an expert on all the secret relationships going on behind closed doors as they pretended to be happily married to other people when he was bored.

It seemed that, with the addition of Rosie, everything had gone back to normal.

Almost.

And that almost was what bothered Sherlock. John’s behaviour, so similar to what it had been when they had last lived together, was nothing but an act. He would greet Sherlock when he came home and be all cheerful, he would hum as he cooked and rant on about his work and wish him a good night with a pat on the shoulder. None of that was genuine, and Sherlock was not sure John even realised it.

John had been genuine towards him just an hour ago. They sat together in silence, both engrossed by a book, or so Sherlock had thought. When he had looked up from his pages, he had spotted John smiling at him, an honest, open smile that faded as soon as John realised he was being watched. Sherlock didn’t mind much. Being open means being vulnerable and it was understandable that John would want to hide that.

What he did mind, was how sad the smile had been. John was sad and Sherlock was to blame, he knew that much. In his attempt to make John happy Sherlock had achieved nothing whatsoever.

The bag was packed within twenty minutes. Experiment failed. Friendship in shambles.

 

* * *

 

**SH**

John was still in the living room as Sherlock came down the stairs and he almost smiled when he realised it was 1:02 am. Two weeks. He had made it to two short weeks. And that made him almost cry. How he had failed John Watson, from the day he had come back from the dead. It was poetic, to call it that. The years he had worked to dismantle the spider web, pull at every string and bring the people attached to them to justice had torn a rift into their relationship and Sherlock had made a joke of that. And with every further act, with every attempt, he had made it worse.

He had failed to protect his wife.

He had made John feel guilty about hitting him.

He had dragged him into this family drama and Eurus’ psychotic game.

After this track record, maybe giving up was the best thing to do, even though it went against everything Sherlock wanted. Maybe making John happy was leaving him be, letting him go. John had decided on not coming back after all, and Sherlock should have respected his choice. How desperate was he, how socially incompetent? John had gotten over him, had moved on with Mary. Sherlock should try to do the same. There couldn’t be weekly meetings then, or text about cases if he wanted John happy and to not hurt him further.

Those were big words to think on the bottom of the stairs, a suitcase in hand. He should have found them fourteen days ago, before embarrassing himself in front of the man who owned his heart.

In the end, John had not been the only one pretending, had he? For way to long, he had pretended they could be alright. Sherlock tightened the grip around the handle.

“Sherlock?” John looked up from his book, and the look of surprise, made anger flair up in Sherlock’s chest. This was far from unanticipated. They had been walking towards this metaphorical cliff for months.

The book closed and John sat up. “You’re leaving?” John pretended to be unfazed, sound neutral and Sherlock got even angrier.

“Yes, I am leaving, just as you wanted.”

John didn’t ask how he knew, he just looked at Sherlock with that sad smile again. Now he was being genuine, of course, open.

“I thought, I could force your luck on you, John. I thought you were unsure about living with me again and that if I just moved in, you would realize that was what made you happy… happier at least. You were happy at Baker Street for a long time, and I thought we could have that again. I was wrong, apparently, so yes, I am leaving.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “You said you forgave me, for the fall, for Mary. You said… but then you don’t … “. Sherlock was not one for leaving his sentences unfinished, but the anger, the hurt blocked his throat, choked him.

“But we didn’t forgive ourselves, Sherlock. That is the problem. We didn’t forgive ourselves. You still think you have to make things up to me, every day. You came here, and you play house. You pretend you still need me on cases, just so I feel better about myself. You still blame yourself.” John stood by his chair, eyes on the floor, hands balled into fists.

And Sherlock had nothing more to lose. He could just be honest now. All cards on the table.

“First of all John Watson, I do not pretend to need you on cases. I always valued your opinion, your ability to show me the right path. Secondly…,” He took a deep breath “Is it so hard to believe that our friendship me a kinder man? Can you not see that I care about your happiness more than my eightieth experiment on toenails? Yes, maybe planning your wedding was a way of torturing myself, I give you that.” Sherlock dropped the suitcase, but carefully placed his violin on the sofa.

“You made me a kinder man”

Sherlock knew he sounded melodramatic. He was a drama queen after all.

He expected anger, resentment even, but John just smiled his smallest smile, just a tiny tug at the right corner of his mouth. “And you made me a better one.” He looked up. “You made me a better one, and then I went and fucked it all up. That is my point, Sherlock. I haven’t forgiven myself for what I’ve done to you.”

Walking toward the fireplace, Sherlock avoided looking at John. It was almost over. There was just one more thing he needed to know, so he could have the chance to find peace.

“You’re not being honest, John.”

The thunk of something falling on the floor, the book, Sherlock suspected. “This is the most honest conversation we ever had, Sherlock.” John’s voice sounded bitter.

Sherlock chuckled. “That talk about forgiveness, your self hate, that is all very nice. Good conversation. It has nothing to do with why you can’t even look at me. You avoid me, in the most polite way possible, which is just a very John thing to do. You can’t bare to be my friend anymore, and I know just too well that it has nothing to do with forgiveness. So, tell me, John. Be honest.” Swirling around to face the other man, he made himself dizzy. John was still by the chair, but his hands were in his hair now, pulling, tugging.

“Oh, well, if you already know, then why don’t you tell me? Deduce it, Mr. Clever.” John was being defensive, that much was obvious.

“No.”

“No?” Almost a yell. “Because last time I checked, you loved nothing more than being right.” A low punch, and they both knew it.

“You hate being told what to do, what to feel. I need to hear it from you. Please, John.”

John dropped his arms, and like a plug being pulled, the anger poured out of his face. “You really have become a kinder man.” He smiled. “When I met you, all you ever did was tell people who they were and what they felt. I liked it. I liked that I could never fool you. It made me more honest with myself.” He chuckled, looked at his hands, then up at Sherlock again. 

John took a step towards him, and another. “When you told me that you were married to your work, that was okay with me. I thought that I was so lucky to be acquainted to, then a friend of this amazing, brilliant, funny, sexy man, and that it would be enough, that I didn’t need… more.”

A lip lick, kneading his fingers, as he so often did.

“I can’t anymore, Sherlock. I tried, after all the bullshit we went through, to be your friend. When we renovated Baker Street, I thought we could just go back to that. And then, I saw my chair. But it wasn’t my chair. It was the same model, had the same pattern, but it didn’t fit anymore. Neither did I. That’s when I knew I couldn’t come back to you. God, this is bollocks.”

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, though it was just an attempt to hide how much they were shaking. “Just tell me. I can take the truth.”

“I can’t be your friend anymore, because to me, you are not just those things anymore. You are also kind, and you are loyal. God, you gave your life for me more than once and I love you more than I can say. I love you, and it hurts so much, sometimes.”

Sherlock had his arms around him, before he had even fully realised that John was crying, and he held him to his chest. He had held him like this before and his arms knew just where to go, his fingers knew where to rest against skin and fabric.

_He loves me. He loves me. John said, he loves me._

The joy of what John’s words meant was dampened by the hurt they caused for John. He had to hold it back for just a little longer and be the rational one once more.

“It’s almost two in the morning.” Sherlock whispered into his hair, pressing a kiss to the same spot a second later. “Nothing ever good happens that late.”

He felt John’s body shake with a mixture of laughter and crying.

“What I am going to say now is a proposal. It is not me telling you what to do.”

“Okay.” Breathed against his shoulder. The beard tickled slightly, and Sherlock was not sure he liked the feeling. He preferred it to the moustache any day.

“I’m going home, to Baker Street, so we can both calm down. And then, we’ll go back to meeting up once, or twice a week, until you feel comfortable around me again.

“Sher…”

“Hush, I’m almost done. We’ll meet, and maybe even go on cases. And then, when you are ready, you tell me again that you love me, preferably when I have not just been an arse minutes prior. And then you’ll let me kiss you, and you’ll let me say it back.”

“Sherlock, I don’t know what to say.”

“We can’t do this, in this house where we both feel so guilty.” Another kiss to the top of his head. “Give us time. Knowing what we can be, give us time.”

John took a step back, rubbing at his eyes. “You really are a genius, aren’t you?” He smiled, and somehow, even with the stains of tears on his cheeks, it did not look sad at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I upload the new chapter right after getting up in the morning. Upoload times might be strange for you, blame the time zones :P


	4. Chapter 4

**SH**

He woke at the sound of the door clicking shut. It was worrying, how he, a detective, the best one in Britain at that, had not heard the person coming up the stairs and into the flat, or them walking up to his room. Sherlock felt drained but it was a good exhaustion; one he had never felt before. But then, he had never had to process John Watson telling him he loved him before.

_I love you more than I can say._

Sherlock hated himself a little bit for delaying their happy ending. He could have stayed, could have made love to John all night, but It was the right thing to do. There was no rush, not with them. They had the rest of their lives, now. The thought made him smile, as he stretched his arms over his head. The mattress dipped, as the intruder got into bed and rested on top of the duvet.

Sherlock, unconsciously, turned slightly to lay closer to him until he could sense the heat of his body without really touching him.

“I managed to get passed Mrs. Hudson without being offered biscuits or cake. I don’t think that ever happened to me before, not since I moved out.”

“That skill will bring you far in life.” Sherlock mumbled into his pillow, still not fully awake, or he would have processed that John Watson was in his bed.

“Sorry for waking you, by the way. I thought you’d be wide awake by now. It’s almost eleven. I can make you tea.”

Sherlock’s answer was abrupt, as he sat up. “No” What he meant was “I don’t want you to leave my bed.”

John chuckled and turned to his side. “Alright, then.” He cleared his throat. “I’m here to talk, if that is alright.”

“Then I will listen.”

 

* * *

 

**JW**

John had rehearsed his words on the tube that took him from Rosie’s nursery to Baker Street. Seven stops were not enough to organise all his thoughts or find the right way to express what he needed to say, so when he reached 221B, he was nervous.

He is your best friend. You told him, you loved him. And he said, he would say it back.

So, maybe, it was more anticipation than nervousness, anticipation of being able to hold the man he loved, to know they could be together, just like that. He was overwhelmed by how everything he had ever wished for would come true. John smiled at the thought, briefly scratching his beard to hide that from the world. This was for Sherlock to see, not random people on the tube. Maybe, he should have just kissed him, even though it had been almost two in the morning. Sherlock would have let him, and John still couldn’t believe it.

He had expected any kind of reaction to his love confession, surprise, amusement, even disgust, had imagined their friendship to be over at this point. Sherlock had just held him. They needed to stop hugging while crying, John thought and smiled again, looking down at his hands. They could be this now, together, and John couldn’t wait. Getting through his morning routine with Rosie, dropping her up at the nursery, had taken about a hundred years. Anticipation.

John almost ran from the tube station to the flat.

He had found Sherlock sleeping, which in its own was a sight to behold and John could not resist to lay next to him for a while. The words came easy then, within the familiar walls of home.

“You were right, last night, to leave, to give me time. There was a lot to think about, and I did. For a while, probably way to long, I imagined what it would be like, to meet up and reconnect and spend time with Rosie. It would be lovely.” John felt himself smiling and he looked up and into Sherlock’s eyes. They looked silver today and John didn’t want to blink, in fear of missing something.

“It would be lovely.” He repeated, “And I would hate it, because I would still not be allowed to kiss you, and I want to kiss you.” John felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, traveling up his neck slowly. “Wanting to kiss you was the reason why I thought I couldn’t be your friend anymore. Well, kissing and ... more. I’m digressing.” He had to close his eyes for a moment, because the thought of making love to Sherlock was almost too much. They were so close, the tension nearly a physical entity within the room. There was just a little more to say, before it would collapse as their mouths met.

“ I want to kiss you, and then we’ll have breakfast, or lunch, and we’ll pick up Rosie and have a lovely day at the park, and we will reconnect. And every time we want to, we can kiss. No more waiting.”

Sherlock’s finger rested against his bottom lip and John thought that it was a wonderful idea to do that, to touch each other, so he raised his hand to comb through Sherlock’s unruly hair. His curls felt even softer than John had imagined, and they smelled faintly of honey.

“I just… if we do this, I can’t go back, Sherlock. I need this to be forever.”

Sherlock’s lips descended onto his in a movement so slow, he could have easily turned away. It was the last thing John wanted.

Their world reduced to warm, and soft, as their mouths rested against each other, unmoving at first, before they felt brave enough to explore unknown territory. They pressed, and released, and readjusted their lips, breaths mingling, with John’s hands in the detective’s hair and Sherlock’s cupping the doctor’s face. The kiss was better than John could have ever imagined, more tender, more… loving. The word made John shiver. They were in love. How had they become so lucky? They were a pair of idiots for having taken that long.

John smiled at that thought, smiled against Sherlock’s mouth and it was good. This, he could do for the rest of his life, hold Sherlock Holmes in his arms. He had been so stupid, for not being honest sooner. There was no time for regrets now. This moment was made for them, and there was no place for anything else, not for a haunting past or fears of the future. Just them, kissing in their home, in what could be their bed one day.

“Oh.” Sherlock moved away, suddenly, and sat up.

“What?” John felt dazed, somewhat enchanted by Sherlock’s mouth, he yearned for more of the gentle pressure. He reached out for him and the detective answered his touch, intertwining their fingers and straddling John’s hips.

“This is the moment I tell you back, John. This is…” He cleared his throat. “I love you, John.”

They were kissing again a moment later, their hands in reverse positions as they pulled each other closer. “God, it is so good to hear you say that.” John looked up at the man on his lap. “I mean, I suspected you felt this way after what you said earlier tonight, but... I should stop talking.”

Sherlock made sure he did, with his lips and tongue and hands.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo much smut in chapter 5 
> 
>  
> 
> I'm so happy about all your comments. They make my heart jump in my chest :) <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *explicit*

**SH**

John was there, in his bed, and Sherlock was kissing him, addicted at the first touch of lips against lips. The process of finding out how kissing John could feel like being home and new and exciting at the same time was pushed aside by just feeling. Sherlock had never been kissed like this before. Sherlock had never been loved, not like John Watson loved him. He was so glad of it, so indescribably happy, he feared he might burst with it.

Sherlock’s hands pulled at John’s hair to bring them closer, the pressure of their lips painful. Closer, he needed to be closer. The moan turned into a sob as Sherlock’s tried to express what his heart felt and failed.

“Shh, it’s okay, love.” John’s voice was calm, tender with the smile currently being smiled against his cheek. “I know, it’s a lot to process. Eight years, we’ve been waiting for this for eight years.”

“You wanted to stop talking.” Sherlock said, and it was meant as a joke. He felt vulnerable in this, inexperienced, and John, his brilliant John, saw right through it.

“I did, yeah.” John’s beard scrapes against his cheeks and neck in a movement that reminded Sherlock of a cat and he giggled. “We can take it slow, you know, reconnect first, before we jump into anything sexual.”

Sherlock kissed him, softly, in an attempt to thank John for those words. He sat up a little more. “Would you, hold me? Please?”All cards on the table, no more need for holding back. There was a moment of disbelief, then joy on John’s face and a moment later, he was pulled down and against John’s chest. Strong arms closed around him and Sherlock melted into the embrace. It was good, to not have to be strong, or clever for a moment, because John was there to shield him from anything and everything the world might throw in his direction. His John, his conductor of light, his protector.

Sherlock let go.

The tears were silent.

So were they, for a long time.

They stopped on their own volition, after a while.

When Sherlock lifted his head, John was right there to kiss him, tenderly. “Better?”

Sherlock nodded, and let himself be manhandled onto the mattress and kissed some more. John knew what he was doing, how to tilt his head, how much pressure was just right. And god, his tongue against his lips, just brief flickers at first, until Sherlock opened his mouth for him. Within minutes, kiss after kiss after kiss, Sherlock grew more desperate to feel John, and to be felt.

“I got your shirt all wet.” Sherlock tugged at the fabric. “Maybe, you should take it off.

John laughed, an honest and hearty laugh leaving his throat. Only John Watson could giggle like this. “That was a terrible chat-up, Sherlock. You have a lot to learn, still, young Padawan.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Apart from not knowing what a Padawan is, John, I think it was quite effective. I admit, it was slightly pathetic, but it got me where I wanted.”

John snorted, but pulled open the last button, so Sherlock could shrug the shirt off his shoulders.

“I apparently soaked through to the T-Shirt as well.” Sherlock traced the hem along John’s collar bones. He liked this; how playful they could be with each other. That led him to another thought. “John?”

“Hm?” They tugged the T-Shirt off in a team effort.

“I need you to be my friend.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

Sherlock’s fingers were back on John’s collar bones, traveling down slowly. His gaze followed, taking in every detail, every silver hair, every birthmark and small scar. John Watson was beautiful. The Afghan sun had given his skin a gold shimmer, that was still visible after all those years and Sherlock leant up onto his elbows to taste it. He intended one lick, to take in data, but as with his lips, Sherlock got addicted at first contact. He licked and bit and kissed and John’s moans where music in his ears as he mapped out his upper chest.

“Sherlock.” A finger resting at his chin made him look up into what had to be the night trapped in human irises. “Sherlock, can I see you? Naked, I mean. Sorry, I can’t think straight, right now.” John chuckled, but Sherlock could sense his insecurity.

“I think it was you how complained about my chat up lines.”

“Direct approach, that’s my method.” John winked, as they sat up to get undressed. Sherlock was glad to be in his pyjamas, not a button-down shirt, and soon they were naked, kneeling on the bed. Sherlock looked down, and knew, in an instance, that this man was going to take him apart.

 

* * *

 

**JW**

John was naked, in Sherlock’s bed, holding each other, kissing, kissing, kissing, moving their hips in slow circles, teasing, making the other hungry for more.

Holding Sherlock Holmes, that was the most brilliant feeling. He lacked the imagination to think of any other, more fitting word to describe the high he was one. Perfection, maybe.

“God, Sherlock.” John traced his fingers down his lover’s side. “I want … I want so much, Sherlock, and all of it at once.” Slowly, to give Sherlock a chance to pull back, his hands travelled further down and finally came to rest on his bum. Their erections slotted together, as he pulled him close, not perfectly aligned because of their height difference, but that didn’t matter. John had never had a particular opinion on penises, not with his few encounters as a young adult. Sherlock’s cock though, was beautiful, less pale than the rest of his skin, slim and long, the mushroom shaped tip tinted pink. The things he wanted to do to it, do with it.

He had intended to ask Sherlock what he wanted, as he couldn’t decide on where to start, but their bodies found their ways. As tongues met in messy kisses, one turning into the other until the borders were blurred, as hands roamed hot, sweaty skin, their hips bucked to find contact. John’s crown brushed against Sherlock’s shaft and balls, Sherlock's against John's belly, leaving trails of precome.

“John.” Sherlock moaned, and John’s eyes slowly opened to look at him, lips swollen red and eyes dark. “John, please.” He said, not knowing what he was asking for. John still understood. The time of teasing was over.

They rearranged themselves to lie down on their sides. “I can reach you better, that way.” John said, even though Sherlock didn’t need an explanation. John scooted up the bed slightly and rested his forehead against the detective’s. There would be enough time to discover, touch and taste Sherlock’s body. For now, they had waited long enough.

Smearing kisses against Sherlock’s mouth, John wrapped a hand around them both, holding them tightly. John moaned; Sherlock gasped for air.

“John.” A thrust into the tight grip of his fingers. “John, let me, I can… oh, god… I have larger hands.”

That he did, and wasn’t it the most erotic thing? John, even though it was difficult, let go.

“Do you have lube?”

“No, I don’t… No.” Sherlock turned his head away slightly. John just had to kiss him.

“That’s okay, we’ll manage.” John thumbed at the head of his cock, spreading precoma on their shafts. “Alright, I think…” He was cut off by the feeling of long fingers wrapped around him, and the feeling of Sherlock’s cock pressed against his fully, hot, silkily hard. “Oh, shit.”

John caught Sherlock’s smile at his cursing and kissed it away, biting at the full, lower lip. He loved this man, this genius, brilliant, funny, sexy man. Never before had something so simple felt so good.

Sherlock started moving his hand and John rested his forehead against the side of his lover’s jaw to watch, as their cocks disappeared again and again, into the tight grip of Sherlock’s fingers. It didn’t take long, after that, to let go and release, to close his eyes and moan Sherlock’s name and hear his own groaned back.

A thunder storm.  

Fireworks.

Flying.

A Bushfire.

It was all of that at once and more, a force of nature. When he calmed, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock to hold him tight.

“I love you.” He whispered into damp curls.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the Epilogue left for me to post tomorrow. I have ideas for a sequel, if you'd like one :)


	6. Epliogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you are getting the epilogue early :D

 

**SH**

The rain caught them halfway back to the flat. After holding John, kissing John, touching John, Sherlock had dragged him out of bed and into the shower. More than an hour later, they had lunch at Speedy’s, unable to not look at each other, smiles plastered to their faces. They were so obvious now, that Sherlock wondered how they had ever hidden their feelings from the other for so long.

When it was time to pick up the little one, Sherlock had accompanied the doctor to the nursery. It was a horrid place, full of mothers and fathers attempting small talk, only so they could show off their children’s mediocre life skills. He had been in too good of a mood to point out that all those kids, cute as they might be, were inferior to Rosie Watson. It warmed his heart, when Rosie had squealed in delight as soon as she spotted him and he caught her, lifted her over his head. “Hello, Miss Watson.” Sherlock said in a warm, loving, tone. He dropped a kiss to her blond curls, and she had insisted on him carrying her to the park.

They had ice cream sitting by the pond, and Sherlock had realised with delight that John’s hand had been resting close to his on the bench the entire time. It was not quite holding hands or being out in public as a couple. They would get there. Reconnect, get comfortable, that was the plan after all.

Around six and after hours at the playground, Rosie had become grumpy, most likely because she was hungry and tired, and they decided to go to Baker Street and order Indian food.

The rain couldn’t ruin a day like this. Sherlock picked up Rosie and they ran. John was right beside him and when Sherlock looked over at him, he saw him smiling.

An adventure, he realised, didn’t mean they had to chase criminals every week, they could make it themselves.

They must look ridiculous, running through the rain, already soaked through to the bone, Rosie grabbing Sherlock’s shoulder with her small hands, curls were plastered to her face. Her giggle reminded him of Mary, sometimes. She had not known her mother long enough to take on her behaviour. In that, she was all John. She tucked her tongue into the corner of her mouth when she concentrated on something, or kneaded her fingers when she was nervous. It occurred to Sherlock that, as he would share his life with the Watsons from now on, maybe she would be just a little bit like him. This was a topic to further think about when he was not dashing through pouring rain.

Rosie laughed, and they joined in. London rain was a frequent occurrence, and they both rarely carried umbrellas. It was different today. Maybe, Sherlock thought, it was just the happiness bubbling to the surface, with the rain only being the catalyst.

They stumbled into the flat, Sherlock just behind John, glad that Mrs. Hudson didn’t catch them. She would have been livid, seeing them soaking her carpets.

“We’ll need showers. And tea.” Grinning, John flopped into his chair, and Sherlock looked at him, all wet and happy. 

His throat felt tight all of the sudden, the pure joy intertwining with something deeper. “It’s good, you in that chair.” He admitted, and it was. In his mind, the first time John had sat in this exact spot, popped up.

There was more than just a difference in appearance. There were more wrinkles, of course. John’s hair was completely silver, now, which Sherlock found quite attractive. Past John had been clean shaven and horribly dressed. Sherlock had thought him handsome anyway. This, the new John, was breathtaking.

John wasn’t less broken now. There had been no magical cure for trauma, for PTSD like there had been for the psychosomatic limp. But still after all they had gone through, after the several things they had forgiven each other for, after being together, they were in a better place now as people then they had been before they met. Maybe even then, it had been written in the stars that they would end up here.

A string of missed opportunities which didn’t matter now.

A pang of regret about being cowards before.

So much joy, because they were finally here.

“You’re home.” His voice was hoarse with emotion and he watched John’s face grow tender.

“It’s good to be home.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments. 
> 
> I'd be happy for ideas for the Sequel <3

**Author's Note:**

> buymeacoff.ee/StrJohnlock


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